


red and black and back again

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Heavy Angst, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Season Ten
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 14:56:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sort of "what if" fic about if Cas hadn't arrived in the bunker in time and Demon!Dean had killed Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	red and black and back again

Dean’s eyes clear from black to green to the image of Castiel standing over him, brow furrowed, his blue eyes searching Dean’s. Dean’s mind is still fuzzy, still reeling, not yet feeling the rancid guilt of his actions (that he still can’t quite remember) that he knows he will feel soon. The splash of holy water to his face only confirms his suspicions, but does little to clear his head.

"Where’s Sam?" he asks, blinking, beads of blessed water dropping onto his lap.

Castiel rears back unconsciously, and hesitates to answer. The fear and grief seared into the lines on his face are uncharacteristic of the usually composed angel.

Then Dean remembers. All of it comes back at once, every single fucking moment of the months he spent black-eyed and black-souled.

"Untie me," he croaks, his eyes reddening and shining. "Let me go."

Cas sags. “Dean—”

"Let me go," Dean repeats, louder, his voice shaking. Castiel relents, leaning forward and untying Dean from the chair. He follows Dean out of the dungeon and through the maze of hallways, following the destruction. Dean stops at Sam’s body, lying prone on the ground, one arm splayed and the other on his chest. His throat is sliced open, rough and uncoordinated, the white of his spine showing. There’s blood everywhere, and Sam’s lackluster eyes seem to be staring holes in him.

"I killed him," Dean says. "He let me kill him because he couldn’t kill me."

"You weren’t yourself," Castiel tries to console.

"Get out." Dean whispers after a beat.

Castiel frowns. “I can bring him back. I have enough grace to.”

"I know," Dean replies, "Just give me a moment. Please." He turns back to Sam, listening to Cas’s shoes click as he walks away. He drops to his knees beside his little brother, his vision completely blurred and his breaths stuttering. He runs a hand through Sam’s hair once, twice, before a single sob breaks out of his throat. Tripping in his haste, he stands quickly and leaves as fast as he can.

He comes back with a wet washcloth. He crouches down, setting the cloth down and carefully taking Sam’s arm and putting it on his chest. He treats Sam like a porcelain doll, like he’s too dirty and evil to be touching him. Most of him believes this. He looks away from Sam’s eyes as he shuts them. He angles Sam’s head straighter, shuts his mouth. Now it looks like he’s only sleeping, and the throw-up feeling in Dean abates just a little.

He picks up the cloth again and dabs at the stream of blood coming from Sam’s mouth until it is gone. He moves down to his neck, doing as much as he can without pressing into Sam’s throat. He has to hold Sam’s head still as he does so, because the lack of his neck tends to loll it side to side. 

He ignores the bloodstained shirt and the pool on the floor. He covers the hole he tore in Sam’s throat with the now-pink washcloth before calling Castiel back in.

"I could have done that, you know," Castiel tells him, but Dean knows that.

"I wanted to do it myself," he says softly, and leaves it at that, not trusting his voice any further than those few words. There are tears dotting Sam’s face, and tears on the floor, mixing with his dead brother’s blood. Castiel doesn’t need to know that Dean had also kissed Sam gingerly on the forehead and on the lips, whispering an apology that no one would hear.

He steps back and lets Cas hover over his brother. Cas removes the washcloth and taps Sam’s throat. It pulls itself back together, sinews appearing out of nowhere and covering his spine, then skin. He’s whole, but still gone. Castiel braces himself and presses a firm finger to Sam’s forehead. Sam reacts immediately, his back arching upward and his lungs pulling in a breath. Cas stumbles back, spent, but Dean’s eyes aren’t on him.

Sam is still prone on the ground and he’s gasping like his throat is still gone, addled eyes blinking over and over again as he looks at the ceiling. His memory hits him just like Dean’s had, and he stills, his mouth letting out another  _whoosh_ , closing his eyes and staying there for a moment. 

He sits up arthritically, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He looks at Cas and Dean with a blank face.

"Is he…?" he asks Cas.

"I’m human," Dean says in his jagged, broken voice. "It’s me, Sam."

Sam nods, and he doesn’t look happy, or angry, or worried. He just looks downtrodden, tired and burnt out and too fucking old. He looks away from them and stands.

"I’m going to take a shower and change into something else," he says, already walking away.

Dean steps forward, but stops himself. The horror and guilt is eating him alive from the inside out and he doesn’t know what to do. “Sam-” he clears his throat. “Sammy—”

"Please don’t bother me," Sam adds quietly, interrupting Dean, and walks down the hallway and out of sight. Dean feels like half of his soul is breaking off from inside him and going away with his brother.

"I’ll leave you to it. I’m sorry, Dean. You can call me when… you can call me soon," Cas amends, giving Dean a look of pity before disappearing to who knows where.

Even though the blood is gone, Dean’s eyes are rooted to the spot where Sam had lain just moments earlier. He knows he will never forget, will always know which exact tiles were submerged in red. He looks at the demon knife, but doesn’t pick it up— he doesn’t know if he ever can again. 

He feels more demonic than he had before Cas had cured him.

He wants more than anything to solve this somehow, to mend all the bridges he had absolutely obliterated with Sam when he’d fucking killed him. He wants them to be more than just okay, like they had been for months— hell, even years. He thinks back to when they could read each other’s minds and could share the same space, touching in a line down their bodies. He thinks back to Sam’s dimples and smiles and how he throws his head back when he finds something really funny. He thinks back to who they were when they were themselves, literally a lifetime ago for both of them, and vows to get back there. He makes it his mission.

He gives Sam his space, listening to the hiss of the shower and the quiet cries as he passes by the bathroom. He leaves a long letter on Sam’s bed with words for Sam and no one else. He makes sure “I love you” is in there, make sure his soul is poured out on the pages like Sam’s had been on the floor earlier. He writes a lot of promises he intends to keep. He goes back to his own room, sitting on the bed listlessly and staring at nothing. He hears Sam’s door open and click shut. After half an hour, the door opens and shuts again, and a single paper is slid under Dean’s door. He hears the clicks again.

Dean is fucking terrified of that paper on the floor. He feels kind of stupid, like he’s passing notes in class. He tries to shake off that feeling, tries to remember that he’d said more truth to Sam in letters than he had in spoken words for quite some time. This means more.

He stands and picks up the letter. He feels a little more human when he reads the only four words scrawled onto the page.

_I love you, too._

 


End file.
